— Peter, how’s work? All good?
— Same as always.
— Peter, come to dinner, will you? I made dumplings, just like you love.
— I’m not hungry.
— Peter, how can you say that? I waited for you; I didn’t eat without you.
— Listen, Mary, are you a child? You can’t eat without me? I’m tired of this!
— Peter, don’t be angry…
— Peter, Peter! I’m sick of hearing my name all the time! You’re suffocating me with your “Peter!” There’s someone else in my life now. I’m leaving you.
— You’re leaving? Are you sure about this? But know this, Peter, there’s no turning back.
— I won’t be back.
Peter kicked off his muddy boots at the door, grabbed his bag, and began stuffing his belongings into it. Mary stood silently, watching. When he left, the muddy prints on the rugs seemed like scars across her soul. She sat in the middle of her kitchen, staring at the mess, tears streaming silently down her face.
***
Peter walked through the quiet English village, his thoughts racing. Was he doing the right thing? They had been married for 25 years. Their son was a grown man now, serving in the military and living far away. Would he understand?
But Peter felt that everything between him and Mary had died. Not even respect was left. Mary had always been silent, never once raising her voice or showing anger. He thought of Stella – young, modern, full of life, and ambition. She wasn’t tied down by old-fashioned ways, with her wooden furniture and tea kettles. No, with Stella, everything felt fresh and exciting.
“I’m doing the right thing,” Peter assured himself. “Things will be different now.”
***
Mary sat in her kitchen, staring at the woven rugs she used to love so much. They no longer brought her joy. “He never understood,” she thought, her fingers brushing over the edges of the rugs. The muddy footprints he had left behind felt like a cruel metaphor for how he’d walked all over her heart.
She remembered the early days, back when they’d first married. The little house they’d fixed up together, her joy in finding those rugs and setting up the wooden furniture. She had dreamed of a kitchen that would feel warm and timeless, a place where they’d grow old together.
But Peter had fallen for someone else. The whole village knew about it. Mary had heard the whispers, but she stayed silent. “You’re too soft,” her friends told her. “You should fight.” But Mary didn’t.
***
Months later, Peter returned to Mary.
— Mary, we need to talk about the house.
— What about it? Are you going to split it with a saw or an axe?
— Don’t joke like that. Stella and I think it’s best to sell it.
— I won’t sell my house to strangers.
— Then buy my share.
— Fine. What I do next is none of your business.
Mary sold Peter his share of the house and packed her things. A week later, she boarded a bus to the city. Her son had already helped her find a little home near him. She planned to start fresh. She knew her skills as a veterinarian would keep her employed wherever she went.
It hurt to leave behind the life she had built, but it was better than staying in a place where happiness was just a memory.
***
Peter was excited to renovate the house. Stella had immediately thrown out all of Mary’s “old junk.” The cozy wooden furniture and the rugs were gone. In their place were modern, colorful cabinets, shiny decor, and bright artificial lights.
One evening, Peter opened a cupboard and found it nearly empty. Instant noodles, tea bags, and some instant oatmeal – that was all there was. The house felt as hollow as the cupboards.
Peter stepped out onto the porch, sat on the steps, and buried his head in his hands.
“What a fool I’ve been,” he thought. “I’ve thrown away the best years of my life.”
The warmth of Mary’s kitchen, the quiet moments over tea, the comfort of her steady presence – all of it was gone, replaced with an empty shell of a house. Peter realized too late that he hadn’t just left Mary; he had left behind peace, love, and everything that truly mattered.